The Ramblin' Road Trip Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: It's a wild ride when Illya is chased by Thrush, hijackers, and a jealous ex-husband.


THE RAMBLIN' ROAD TRIP AFFAIR

ACT 1 On the Road Again

All the traditional transportation routes out of town were covered, he was certain. "Professional paranoia" his partner would have quipped. Kuryakin cursed the local office. Yes, the mission had gone smoothly. But what good would that do, unless he could get back to New York with the code disk ?

He was dusty and disheveled; longing for a sleep, a shower, a steak, in any conceivable order. But that was highly unlikely at the moment. Sometimes the simplest pleasures of life were so complicated. He trudged up the concrete ramp and stuck out his thumb.

"All aboard," caroled the surprising voice as the side door flung open to him.

Kuryakin heaved himself into the cab of the 18-wheeler. From the road, the truck appeared to be directed by some phantom driver, but he was in no mood to question fate. When he saw his chauffeur, Illya understood.

She was too slight to be seen from the highway; and from where she sat, her jeans were too tight to join the teamsters' union. A thick, brazen scarlet braid peeked from the confines of her baseball cap.

"Samantha Susannah Skaggs," she thrust a hand forward. "Sammie-Sue. Just a few rules to keep our miles together pleasant," she ticked them off on her blood-red fingertips. "No smokin', no swearin', no spittin', OK?"

He nodded.

"Oh, and no singin' unless you can stay on key. Still comin'?"

Kuryakin waved his consent and she curled a confident hand round the gear shift. The huge machine roared to life under her mastery, and they pulled into the twilight.

She took in his immediate needs with a practiced eye. "Here," she shoved a bag towards him. "There's some soup left in the thermos, a few crackers, a carrot. This is the Topeka to Toleda run, so we won't hit a real town for a spell." She recognized he was struggling against sleep. "Don't bother about keepin' me company. Use that pillow behind ya."

He mumbled his thanks and drifted away, carrot clutched in his hand.

ACT 2 Detour

The slowing of the truck's motion woke him.

"Hey, Chatterbox," she nudged him, "this is a good stop for a fill-up and a wash-up. Wipe the sleepy-sand outta yer eyes and hop down."

He stirred and followed her instructions in the mindlessness of waking.

"C'mon," she hooked his arm and propelled him inside the neon-bright diner, where large flannelled men were engaged in card games and mashed potato mountains.

When Kuryakin returned from washing up, the girl was riding a counter stool side-saddle and had already ordered for them.

"Stew's right chunky, biscuits are fluffy, the coffee just keeps comin', and it's Tuesday, so the pie's peach." She swayed to some mournful jukebox tune and sighed. "Ah loooove Tuesdays..."

Several bites into dessert they attracted attention.

"Well, Sammie-Sue, " one of the large men sidled up to her. "Yer boyfriend here ain't too friendly. Now, if I was to take ya to supper..." he snaked a tattooed arm around her shoulder.

Kuryakin tensed, but Sammie-Sue neatly deflected the unwelcome embrace.

"Hank, this is Cousin Murl. Ah'm showin' him the trail."

Like most of his opponents, the larger man underestimated Kuryakin's power. But the last thing the agent wanted to do was to create commotion. Hank leaned over Kuryakin, his spicy chili breath hot in the Russian's face. "Another kissin' cousin? You enjoyin' yer ride with Sammie-Sue? All her 'cousins' enjoy ridin' with Sammie-Sue. Yeah, Sammie-Sue sure has a mighty large and lovin' family..."

"Ah cain't finish mah pie, Hank, would you like it? Ooopps!" Sammie-Sue tipped the plate onto his chest. "Mercy, Ah'm just sooo clumsy. Here, let me help yew.." she smeared the gooey dessert thoroughly into his shirt, until he pulled her hands away with a growl and lumbered towards the men's room.

Sammie-Sue tossed a handful of sticky bills onto the counter and grabbed Illya's sleeve.

"I would've finished your pie," he groused.

"C'mon, now!" she shoved him into the cab and hopped behind the wheel.

"You were pretty slick back there," he observed admiringly.

"Hank's a pig. He's also mah ex," she shrugged dismissively. "But it appeared you were fixin' to interfere. Ah cain't have that. Ah'm practicin' self-reliance. Like Emerson," she added deliberately.

"Emerson?"

"Collected essays—Ralph Waldo Emerson, American tramson…transin..dentist. 1860's..."Self-Reliance"...? "She cocked an eyebrow. "Well, it was a long shot."

"That a mere hitchhiker would recognize your reference?"

"Sorry," she flushed in the dark. "Ah reckon Ah shouldn't be a snob. Not every soul is blessed with the educational opportunities Ah've had."

A well-thumbed paperback on the dash caught his attention. He began flipping through the translation of Tolstoy's Family Happiness. "Indeed."

"When Momma lit out, Daddy hit the road with me in tow. Fixed up the cab an' trailer nice an' homey. Whenever Daddy stopped, he talked to people and he bought books. Ah grew up coast to coast. When Ah got tall enough to reach the pedals, Ah spelled him behind the wheel."

"And you never missed a stable home, a regular school, a steady boyfriend?"

"Cain't imagine stayin' parked in one place. And you..." she grazed him with a evaluating look, " don't appear too domesticated yourself."

"Afoot and lighthearted, I take to the open road,

healthy, free, the world before me

the long brown path before me,

leading wherever I choose..." Kuryakin quoted Whitman.

"Afoot, when we met, anyway. Lighthearted? Ah think not. You look like you've traveled a hard road not of your own choosin'."

And they began a lively debate on Free Will versus Predestination.

She was so eager to talk, to connect with another person. Illya was suddenly reminded of his partner, and gave fleeting thanks for his companionship.

"It's lonely on the road," he observed.

"Not lonely enough to cuddle up to that mudslupper Hank. Hell, Ah was just 16. Ah've raised mah standards since then." Her eyes roved slowly up and down her passenger. "Do Ah need to draw you a map?" she asked softly, gliding a finger along his seat belt.

Illya cleared his throat. "One can get lost in unfamiliar territory. I wouldn't want to take a wrong turn."

As if on cue, Elvis began to croon "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" on the radio.

Out of habit , the Russian began to hum along. He leaned over to retrieve the thermos and she turned quickly and caught his lips. He was surprised by her sweet and yielding flavor, the tenderness of lips that talked so tough.

She exhaled slowly, and refocused her eyes on the road. "Mercy...Ah just knew you could sing on key..." Her yawn dissolved the mood. "Ah've been at this since dawn. Ah'm gonna pull over."

The second last thing Kuryakin wanted to do was to be caught asleep at a dark, desolate truck stop. "Why don't you crawl in the back and point me in the right direction?"

She looked at him skeptically. "Think you can drive this rig?"

"I'll keep you ahead of schedule."

"Deal"

# # # # # # #

Illya had one hand guiding the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead on the asphalt horizon, and his other hand reaching blindly under the seat for a map to calculate an alternate route, if necessary. His fingers felt up a long, cold metallic rod, and brailled up to a familiar grip. Suddenly he felt a small barreled pistol pressed into his neck.

"Ah was brought up that it was rude for a guest to poke around, " she whispered hot in his ear.

ACT 3 Road Runner

"Apparently you were also brought up with firearms training. This is no amateur weapon."

"And yer no amateur to recognize that. It's licensed 'for protection of person and property.' Now, if you'll just bring up your hand slow and empty, back to the wheel where it belongs, you can introduce yourself properly..."

"I think first we need to identify who has been trailing us," he suggested.

Sammie-Sue glanced into the big mirror.

"May I presume your Hank is the jealous type?"

"Could be Hank, " she squinted thoughtfully. "Could be hijackers along this stretch."

Then Kuryakin's heart sank, when he realized THRUSH probably tracked him through a homing device on the code disk. "Or...it could be some fellows chasing me," he admitted.

"Damn. Excuse me. Triple threat." She crawled up and over the seat. "How long?"

"About the last five miles."

"Uh-huh. Can you shoot straight, Darlin'?"

He elbowed back his jacket to reveal his holster and Sammie-Sue whistled. "Nice piece."

He checked the mirror again. "Uh-oh." Kuryakin suddenly tramped on the gas and spiked their speed, flinging her forward against the window.

"What- in- the- name- of- high-school- football-?"

"Coming up that ramp...the Global Wings truck..."

She sighed." Well, looks like we got us a convoy."

ACT 4 Get your kicks on Route 66

Even geography was against them; flat, open, empty, straight highway. He growled at the Topeka office for not having the good sense to be located in, oh, say Little Hog Fat, Kentucky He recalled with longing the sidewinding treacherous mountain roads, and the dense forests providing cover. And on that recent chase, his choice of transportation had been more maneuverable.

"Scootch over, Darlin'."

"What?"

"You need to ride shotgun, literally. Ah need to drive this baby. When Ah grab the wheel, you scoot sideways"

"We can't change drivers in the middle of a chase!"

"We cain't not. Hank always says, go with yer strength." She rose to a crouch and reached across him, her experienced hands gripping the wheel. A sudden bump in the smooth road tossed her into his lap and the truck swerved from side to side.

"Yahoo! Ride 'em, Cowboy!" she crowed with exhilaration.

Kuryakin shuddered. An excited amateur could be as dangerous as an angry enemy. He scrambled past the protruding gear shift and grappled with his holster while Sammie-Sue tamed the truck. She snatched up the microphone to her citizen's band radio.

"Breaker, breaker, this is Lil Red Ridin' Hood. Gotta rabbit chase here an' Ah'm the rabbit. Wolfie, gotcher ears on?"

The radio crackled and sputtered until a vaguely familiar voice responded. "Big Bad Wolf. What's yer -20, Red?"

"Rt. 66 about 20 miles west of Poplar Flat. "

"Red, I'm passin' mile marker 126. Catch yer lights any time now."

"Roger that, Wolfman. Ah reckon Ah need yer whole pack. "

"10-4, Red, I'll round 'em up and head 'em your way. Just keep on truckin, Darlin'."

"Hear ya, Wolfie. We got hijackers in a black and tan; one Global Wings red, chasin' mah 'family' cargo; Oh, Lord- a spy in the sky. Friend of yours?" she questioned Kuryakin sharply.

He gazed skyward hopefully but the belly of the helicopter had no logo. He shook his head. "You didn't mention Hank," Kuryakin reminded her.

Sammie-Sue gave him a pitying look. "Darlin, Big Bad Wolf is Hank. Still the best driver Ah know. Leads the pack, and very protective."

Rescue by a jealous ex-husband. He shook his head again. Perhaps this was one escapade Napoleon Solo could not top.

The Wolf Pack successfully barricaded the freeway. They rounded up the hijackers and held them for the Highway Patrol, performing a little 'meat tenderizing' while they waited. The blockade stalled the THRUSH truck long enough to give Sammie-Sue a substantial lead. The Big Bad Wolf, aka Hank, provided an armed escort with his pig-rig, to the Chicago city limits.

Every few miles, Sammie-Sue glanced out her window and blew Hank kisses. He'd turn red, grin and salute her.

Illya slouched low into his seat.

The copter turned out to be a weather/traffic reporter on his first run, and way off course. Professional paranoia, Kuryakin admitted to himself.

When they spotted the next truck stop, both drivers pulled over. Hank and Sammie-Sue leapt from their cabs and ran for each other. He opened his massive arms and she jumped into them, wrapping her arms around his neck, and her jeans around his waist. They spun around, giddy.

"Aw, Darlin', I been selfish an 'jealous an' pig-headed. But when I knew you were in danger, well, I didn't think about me losin' you-I just thought about you."

"And when Ah was in trouble, you were the only one Ah wanted beside me..."

"Ahem...ah...thank you for the ride. My office has a branch in town. I can catch a cab from here...I hope it hasn't been too inconvenient. We can reimburse..." Illya Kuryakin, master of Interruption.

But Sammie-Sue had already relegated her passenger and their adventure to the status of 'scenic detour' on her rocky road home to Hank's arms.

finis


End file.
